


Tower's Guardian Angel

by AlexNow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Dear urie-mazing I hope you like this, Height Differences, I've never written a fluff based fic so shoot me, M/M, i used logan as castiel because I found out thats a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexNow/pseuds/AlexNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small"><b>Height Difference AU.</b> Castiel is microscopic small and, <i>alright</i>, Dean is <i>probably</i> exaggerating but that’s beyond the point. The main idea is how he’s smaller than Dean, smaller than Dean’s freakishly tall little brother and therefore smaller than most of the student body. He’s older than Dean himself but either way, he’s a miniature teenager. Also, he’s Dean’s best friend. This gives him the advantage of always looking out for him, especially through the halls of the high school.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>-ON HIATUS-</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tower's Guardian Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Given as a prompt on tumblr by urie-mazing on tumblr. My first destiel so cut me some slack.  
> -Alex

 

 

Castiel is microscopic small and, alright, Dean is _probably_ exaggerating but that’s beyond the point. The main idea is how he’s smaller than Dean, smaller than Dean’s freakishly tall little brother and therefore smaller than most of the student body. He’s older than Dean himself but either way, he’s a miniature teenager. Also, he’s Dean’s best friend. This gives him the advantage of always looking out for him, especially through the halls of the high school.

Sure, Castiel is old enough to look after himself and mature enough to know what to do under any circumstances but it wasn’t always that way. Just like now, in freshman year Castiel wasn’t tall enough to look above the crowds in the school hallways and not even through them. It became a habit, really. Nothing more. As Castiel would exit a class Dean would already be there, leaning on the wall beside the door with the heel of his left foot propped against the wall as he’d shoot passing girls a flirtatious grin, who’d respond with equally captivated smiles.

(Of course that’d only happen if Dean didn’t already have that class with him, though).

“Hey.” Castiel would say, quietly but not shyly. Dean would immediately refocus his attention to his friend and grin (that one smile that screamed arrogance with only a small spark of fondness) and would offhandedly reach for his hand. Castiel knew the drill far too well, so he’d already been holding out.

To be honest, Castiel has no idea when it stopped being his wrist Dean would haul behind his and started lacing their fingers together.

 

 

 

 

Normally Castiel doesn’t mind being a bit shorter than his peers. Sure, sometimes he gets pushed around when Dean’s not around and he’s earned nicknames like ‘twink’ and ‘puny’ but besides that it’s quite nice being at shoulder’s length to everyone else (if you exclude how Dean sometimes finds it funny to use him as an arm rest).

Right now, though, Castiel is seriously considering sending a very angry text to each one of his family members expressing his hate for their genes. Maybe he will, who knows? Just once he has the box of cookies in his hands and, well, it might take a while.

“Dean!” Castiel calls, and his voice sounds strained, result of how he’s trying his best to stretch his body upwards as much as he can.

“What?” Dean replies from somewhere in the living room (probably setting up his Xbox, if anything else).

“Where’s the stool?”

“In the attic where you last used it,” Dean says, and he suddenly appears, “Want me to go fetch it?” Castiel viciously shakes his head, determined to get his cookies on his own, pointedly ignoring the way his own cheeks are coloring red at the reminder of how Dean bought a stool to keep in the Winchester household just so Castiel could use it.

When Dean steps closer Castiel knows it’s with the intention of pressing himself against Castiel’s back and reaching for it himself and so to avoid further help he bounces once, twice on his feet and his fingers graze the box, not once managing to grab it until on the fifth time they do, but Castiel had not noticed the jar of peanut butter in front of it and suddenly an arm is tugging him away as everything clashes to the floor, including glass right where Castiel was standing no more than five seconds ago.

Castiel should turn around to see Dean with his eyebrows furrowed, as a caring and worried friend, with his voice toning out his questions for wounds, yet he isn’t surprised to hear sniggers from behind him. Nor is he amused to see Dean smirking at him, a playful fire in his eyes.

“Next time you want to grab something that’s higher for you, tell me instead of wanting to feel all superior, alright?” He says, and Castiel stays silent (not that Dean can’t see the way he’s glaring at the tiles below).

When Castiel moves forward to begin collecting the glass before Sam walks in barefoot and cuts his toes, a gentle hand sets itself on his shoulder and Castiel looks up to see a concerned expression on Dean’s face as the younger one delicately pulls Castiel away from the floor and shakes his head.

“Don’t,” He says, voice much more empathetic, “You’ll cut yourself. Let me go get the broom before Sammy walks in here.” He moves to exit, surely towards the storage door but Castiel purses his lips.

“Sorry.” He murmurs, voice soft if not a bit annoyed at himself. Dean suddenly grins, winks and walks away. Castiel suddenly feels a lot better.

 

 

 

 

Dean has always been well known in school, or rather, the place where he moves. The troublemaker, the boy who always knows what to say, the teenager who has a way with women. His reputation follows him everywhere, no matter where he goes. As he travels from place to place because of his father’s job, he always ends up with everyone’s watchful eyes on him. It’s attention he doesn’t mind at all.

“Dean, you promised you’d take me to school early this time.” Dean rolls his eyes at the young voice, his back towards the presence in the room, “I want time to settle in my classroom.”

Deans shoves his feet on the old coffee table in front of him, the wood creaking under his worn sneakers as he glances up, sees his younger brother staring at him with an expression mirroring exasperation as his right hand clutched the strap of his backpack. With a self-assured grin, Dean responds, “Calm down, Sammy. Live a little.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

“Sorry,” Dean laughs, “I forget.”

“ _Dean._ ”

The eldest of the two sighs and rolls his shoulders backwards as he sits straight. Looking up at his young ten year old brother, he tries to emit as much boredom and annoyance as he could. With no avail from it, he groans and stands up, grabs his nearly empty backpack on the way to the door.

“Come on then. Let’s get you to your first year of middle school, genius.”

Sam walks behind him, roughly blowing air out of his mouth and begrudgingly following his brother, knowing that on their walk there he’ll be giving the pep talk (though also acknowledging the fact that considering it’s also Dean’s first year of high school he might be able to escape it).

In the end there was no pep talk, courtesy of Dean’s laziness. Sam already knew the drill, but, just to be sure—

“Rules?” He asks, keeps walking forward where he can already see a school zeroing in, teenagers circling around talking animatedly, and he sees Sam tense from the corner of his eye. Sam always hashated it.

_“When am I going to stop being the new kid, Dean! It’s getting old.”_

_“Sorry, Sammy. I can’t give you an answer.”_

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes, “Defend myself or you’ll be the one beating the pulp out of me, stand tall, and if I can’t handle it myself I call you. No bothering dad.” Dean nods and they stop in front of the school, Sam clenching his jaw and slightly narrowing his eyes up at Dean.

“This is it, little miss prodigy,” He laughs and he looks down at the rest of the students attending the middle school, his eyes straying away for more than a small while as female eighth graders passed by.

“Yeah, cool, Dean. Can I go now?” Sam snaps Dean’s attention back onto him. For a moment he seems disoriented, his devotion far too much on the girls in miniskirts casting Dean lingering glances. Sam, in age only ten and smart enough to have skipped a grade, is already sick of his brother’s act. Troubled boy with a bad family history takes it upon himself to make a strong persona out of himself (smoking habits, leather jacket and all).

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean pats Sam’s shoulder twice, grins at him slyly, “Go get them, Sam. Have fun.”

With that Sam turns around and begins his way towards the front doors of the school, only pausing a couple times to let through some other students chasing each other around (a bit too threatening to be friendly, honestly). Just as Sam enters the middle school, Dean turns around and sighs, runs a hand through his hair and makes his way towards the high school that will hold him for four years, if that.

 

 

 

 

Sadly now, because of his brother’s tendencies to want to always be in his best at school, there was no way Dean could have arrived late to school.

There were people already milling around, and as a young freshman he should feel intimidated by the sneers he gets from some seniors, should try his best to stay out of people’s way until he grasps how this school works, only the first time he arrives at his locker, have already picked up his books, he passes by a girl clearly older than him and he winks once at her, opens his locker and stuffs everything in before leaving.

Being early for school doesn’t mean he has to be on time for his first class.

 

 

 

 

“Yeah, hi,” Dean shoots the man at the front of the classroom a grin, and he feels many pair of eyes on him as he continues, “Just thought the class started in half an hour.” When Mr. Roberts (as his schedule says –and _yes,_ he actually read his timetables-) doesn’t respond his grin doesn’t waver and he nods towards the classroom.

“I guess I’ll just—take my seat.” He enters the room, closes the door with bit of a slam (just to make sure everyone was watching him) and moves where he sees the only place open—a desk at the back of the room next to corner seat where a small boy seems too interested at the world outside to turn. Come to look at it, out of the whole classroom he was the only one not to turn at watch Dean’s entrance with a hint of amusement.

“Mr. Winchester, I assume?” Mr. Roberts makes Dean snap his head his way.

“Uh, yes. Yeah.” Once he finds steady ground he smiles, glances to his right at the pretty girls a seat ahead and directs it her way, watches her laugh quietly and turn away with a blush settles on her cheeks.

“Yes, I’m heard a lot about you.” And the damn history teacher is _continuing_ to talk? Oh, dear god. Dean sighs tightly through his smile and turns to the graying man.

“All good things, I bet.” He says, waits. Mr. Roberts’ eyes tighten, Dean refuses to acknowledge how his hand tightens around the marker he has.

“I’m afraid that’s not the case.”

“Well then, you haven’t been lied to.” Dean sends him a cheeky grin, which only broadens when he hears sniggers from his classmates. Mr. Roberts doesn’t not look amused.

“Stick to your place, Dean Winchester, and we won’t have many problems.” He turns around and starts walking towards the front desk, only when he does Dean simply rolls his eyes and flips him his middle finger. He only sticks his nose higher in the air with a wry smile when everyone laughs.

No one says anything when Mr. Roberts asks why the sudden rush of amusement, and when everyone in the classroom turns to Dean to see their act of loyalty and to catch his attention, Dean closes his eyes and leans his head on the back of his chair. Dean Winchester. That’s who he is and a name everyone will have in mind for the rest of his years here. It always happens. He hears it through the halls.

_“Hey, do you have Dean Winchester in any of your classes?”_

It always happens. It’s no surprise, really. That is, until—

“Mr. Novak, if you were to pay attention to my class I’d be grateful.”

Everyone turns to where Mr. Roberts’ gaze is directed, seeming to be curious on why, on the first day of school for many groups of freshman, Mr. Roberts seems to know the name of one of the students already (except Dean’s but, well) when said student hasn’t even said a word since he arrived. As it seems, it turns out to be the _boy_ who had been staring out the window for the past ten minutes with an air of despair.

Mr. Novak, as he had been called, seems a bit disoriented once he hears his last name being called, slowly turning his head and blinking a couple time as he looks around the classroom. His eyes widen a small bit when they set on Dean, as if he hasn’t even realized the desk aside of him had been taken and _are you fucking kidding me._ Dean spent his whole time here trying to make an impression with a high rate of success only to find out not everyone had witnessed it.

When Mr. Novak’s eyes settle on Mr. Roberts’ figure, who is waiting in silent irritation for the situation to dawn onto him his eyes widen further. At the silence around him that seems to last forever, he finally says, “Uh, hi.” The room erupts into laughter and Mr. Novak only seems confused further.

“I’m sorry, did I miss something?” He asks. Dean watches in bemusement as the side of kid’s face is hit with a ball of paper coming from one of the guys at the other side of the room, of which Mr. Novak’s face only scrunches in annoyance.

“Sorry, dude,” Dean surprised himself by saying, and when the boy turns to look at him, neck craning oh-so slowly, “Just the biggest joke of the century.”  Mr. Novak isn’t given time to respond before Mr. Roberts decides it’s his turn to give an input.

“Castiel,” His voice is grave, “Please back away from your petty daydreams and let me give my class.” Castiel’s eyebrows furrow and he genuinely seems confused.

“I’m not stopping you.” He responds, a bit of question in his voice. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and he bites back a smile as everyone laughs once more, the girls sniggering from behind their hands. Mr. Roberts, he only seems tired.

“Just pay attention, please.” He says. Castiel nods slowly, and that’s that. Besides a couple last glances Castiel’s way with threatening smirks Dean can’t help but notice, Mr. Roberts continues his class with a topic Dean already finds himself not understanding. He glances aside of him, where Castiel seems engrossed in his notebook, furiously moving his fingers with a pen between them on his notebook.

Leaning over the side to check Mr. Roberts is too busy explaining the differences between World War I and World War II rather insistently to the student that asked (the guy seems rather taken aback from the passion the professor uses to explain), Dean places his hand on Castiel’s desk.

Thinking Castiel is ignoring him because, come on, Dean’s hand is _right next to his face,_ he says, “Hey, Castiel, you understand this?” Castiel’s hand freezes and he turns to stare at Dean, glances at the teacher now violently making hand gestures, and then turns his eyes back to the proximity of Dean’s face. Slowly, he shakes his head.

“I—I don’t know what it is I don’t understand.” He responds. Dean grins.

“You, Castiel Novak, are going to be someone fun to have around.” Castiel looks around, checking to see no one else is watching the exchange. Confirming their invisibility, his questioning blue eyes set on Dean’s.

“Thank… you.”

In exchange for Castiel not questioning Dean’s strange tattoo that is accidentally visible when Dean’s watch slips further up, Dean doesn’t ask about the sketch in his notebook of a beautiful young woman with what seems to be a blade clutched in her hand.

When Dean settles back properly in his seat with one of Castiel’s pens in his hand, he nods once towards the small boy (teenager, whatever) and Castiel nods back, slips back into his own world with his hand rapidly working in his notebook again.

 

 

 

 

Three periods later Dean has successfully brought attention upon himself and even has his arm around a girl he isn’t sure is named Kaylie or Hayley, promising he’ll see the guys he’s started talking to at lunch, he parts away and makes his way towards his locker to stuff his backpack inside because why do people like taking it to lunch with them. As he elbows people away, ignoring the glares he receives by people significantly older than him, he catches on a small voice, barely heard and coming from behind him.

“Excuse me—right, sorry—can I just,” Dean turns around, pauses in his steps and doesn’t even flinch at the insult he receives for stopping in the middle of the busy main hallway, “Oh, yeah—uh, don’t worry, you probably have places to go—ow, okay.”

There of course, is Castiel with his hands full of books and seeming to struggle to keep track of where he’s going considering he can barely even see above everyone’s elbows. No one pays him a single glance, though, at his useless apologies as he tries not to push anyone on his way to, predictably, his locker, but that doesn’t stop him from carefully moving around the crowd (not that he’s advancing much, just sort of staying in place until he’s sure it’s safe to pass through). It is then, though, when a guy possibly a Junior knock his hand onto Castiel’s books in an accident and all the freshman’s books go tumbling down.

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel mumbles as he lowers himself to the ground (not that there’s much distance between it and him), “I’ve got it.” The Junior doesn’t even seem to care he’s made a Freshman’s day hell on his first day and doesn’t seem trouble in the slightest.

For Castiel it turns out to be quite difficult considering people keep stepping on his books, and Dean is aware he’s receiving annoying huffs as students circle around him, but he doesn’t move.

 Watching Castiel on the floor stacking his books into his arms as he balances a full backpack on his shoulders, Dean rolls his way and begins to stalk his way towards the small teenager. Grabbing Castiel’s two remaining books he hasn’t quite gotten to grab yet, he hauls Castiel to his feet and pointedly ignores the surprised stare he receives from him.

Wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s wrist, he pulls him through the busy hallways and doesn’t even apologize at the people he elbows roughly, overly aware of the way Castiel stumbles to keep up with the speed Dean walks in.

This is, in fact, the day that the habit began.

**Author's Note:**

> Just one kudo, yeah?  
> -Alex


End file.
